


Flourishing In Darkness

by Seductresses_Temple



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abused Harry, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Femslash, Bonding, Canonical Minor Character Death, Child Abuse, Creature Inheritance, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Ginny Weasley Bashing, Healing, Hermione Granger Bashing, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Incomplete, M/M, Male Slash, Manipulation, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Mating, Mental Health Issues, Molly Weasley Bashing, Mutilation, On Hiatus, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Redemption, Ron Weasley Bashing, Self-Harm, Shame, Smut, Starvation, Victim Blaming, Violence, Vomiting, intimacy issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-05-29 21:24:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15082031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seductresses_Temple/pseuds/Seductresses_Temple
Summary: ON HIATUS (READ -OR DON'T- CHAPTER 4 FOR MORE DETAILS) On October 31st, 1981 Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore left a letter tucked into the folds of the blanket that held Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, as he left the orphaned child on the cold front porch of Number 4 Privet Drive. Nearly seventeen years later, when the wizarding world sits on the brink of war, Harry Potter reading the contents of the letter he'd been left with changes everything. How can Harry trust anyone when he doesn't even know who he is?





	1. The Loneliest Path

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter (unfortunately, it would be a lot gayer if I did)
> 
> Hello all! Welcome to my brand new Ao3 account! I'm new here but not new to fanfiction. I've been writing off and on for years but this story has become a bit of a passion project for me. This story started out on Fanfiction.net during 2010-2011 right when I was falling head first into a relationship that would become abusive. I never thought I'd finish this story after a while of being with my abuser. I was so devoid of the life and vibrancy I once had. That's why I HAVE to finish it, to show to myself that I too can flourish in the aftermath of my darkness. Chapter one is HELLA dark so please, please, PLEASE read the tags. They are there for a reason. I promise things get better for Harry. This story will have a happy ending even if it takes a while to get there. That being said, enjoy!

Harry Potter had suffered a great deal in his young life.

He’d done many things that were both equal parts grand and terrifying. Utterly tragic things at the heart of it. He’d done the impossible and survived the Killing Curse when he was just a year old. It left him an orphan and left him to a fate nearly worse than death. A fate he suffered in silence for fear of what the truth would bring.He’d faced the a three headed dog and a two headed man and still managed to come away from the ordeal alive. He’d survived a professor who’d left him for dead. He’d slain a Basilisk and would have died beneath his school if not for the tears of one very loyal phoenix, all at the tender age of twelve. He’d seen Cedric Diggory, his first crush, and his own godfather -the closest thing to a father he’d ever known- killed before his very eyes within a year of one another. They ripped pieces of him with them when they’d gone. Even worse, he’d been forced to be an unwilling participant in the resurrection of Voldemort by the same traitorous bastard that helped murder his parents.

The wizarding world sat on the brink of war.

Yet and still, preparing to break up with Ginny Weasley felt like one of the scariest, most deadly things he’d ever had to do. But it had to be done. All of the information he’d learned from Dumbledore swirled in his mind as his sixth year quickly snapped to a close. The Headmaster was dying and the war was coming to a head. Harry had a job to do and he couldn’t bear to bring Ginny into the chaos of it all. Harry’s life teetered on utter chaos and there was no telling what his final year at Hogwarts would bring. He had an objective now...

Horcruxes.

Severed pieces of Voldemort’s soul sealed away in mundane objects.

It was Harry’s job. His responsibility to find them, destroy them, and then destroy their maker. It wasn’t particularly conducive to relationships. Ginny had already been touched by the putrid evil of one of Voldemort’s horcruxes before. It had nearly shattered her. Tom Riddle’s diary had tainted Ginny in a way Harry couldn’t bear to put her through again. He refused.

Dumbledore would already be added to the list of people Harry had lost in due time. He didn’t want Ginny to be added to that list. Ron would never forgive him for putting his baby sister, his own sister, in danger. He wasn’t sure if he loved her, or rather- loved her in the way he thought a boyfriend should. But he felt _something_ for her. She was warm, kind, fierce, and wild, she was his best mate’s little sister, she was fantastic, and he wanted her to survive. He couldn’t guarantee anyone’s safety through the war. He had no clue who else would have to die “for the cause” before he would have all the pieces in place to finally go toe-to-toe with Voldemort. But he knew for an absolutely certainty Ginny Weasley wasn’t safe being his girlfriend. No person was safe so long as they stayed by Harry’s side. Ron and Hermione, perhaps, were in too deep but Ginny...she could be spared.

He had to do it before he lost his nerve.

“Ginny listen…” Harry paused, swallowing thickly as his words refused to make the jump from brain to lips.

“We’re breaking up,” she said simply, her words a quiet fact like stating the sky is blue or the weather pleasant.

Ginny met his gaze with the same hard, blazing look he had seen when she’d hugged him after winning the Quidditch Cup in his absence. Fire flickered behind her warm brown eyes and even though Harry felt something awful and cold pang against his heart, he knew they understood each other perfectly. She knew it had been coming all along and she had no intentions of telling him to, “be careful,” or “don’t do it,” because she had accepted his decision long before he ever came to it.

“I’m sorry, Gin,” he breathed, summoning courage from Merlin only knew where.

“It’s alright Harry,” she tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear “war destroys a lot of things; lives, families, worlds...it’d be foolish to think romances are immune.”

Harry hated the truth in her words. The guilt slithered across his stomach like snakes; filthy, coiling, squirming, slithering.

“I’ll tell Ron,” she told him as scarlet flooded their peripheral vision and the carriage smoothed to a halt “over the summer at the Burrow, it’ll be easier coming from me.” She stepped out of the carriage carefully, setting her gaze on him. Something Harry couldn’t identify flicked in her eyes as she watched him climb out after her but it was gone before he could put more thought into it. He looked at the thestral pulling the carriage to avoid her gaze but the thought of death made him blanch and look at her determinedly. Fire flickered in her eyes, blazing and stubborn. Their relationship felt simultaneously over and open-ended.

“Maybe when the war is over…” Harry didn’t know how to finish that sentence. Maybe what? They’d try again? Get married? Have children? Try? Harry barely knew if he’d make it out of the war alive. He didn’t want to go around making promises he couldn’t keep.

It seemed to make Ginny smile all the same.

“Maybe when the war is over,” she parroted, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek “Goodbye, Harry Potter.”

Harry Potter had suffered a great deal of tragedy in his life. Nothing, however, had prepared him for the amalgamation of pain, sorrow, and utter, inescapable relief that settled in his chest as he watched Ginny Weasley walk onto the Hogwarts express as a single woman once again.

 

\---------------------------------

“You alright, mate?” Harry looked up from the window to see Ron and Hermione looking at him, all furrowed brows and down turned lips.

 _Mate...I’m sure I won’t be called that come September._ Harry could only imagine how Ron would treat him once he knew of the breakup. He wasn’t sure how any of the Weasley’s would treat him once they knew what he’d done. Something awful twisted in the pit of his gut. The Weasley’s were the closest thing he’d ever had to a family. Molly Weasley gave him the first Christmas present he’d ever received. Fred and George treated him as close as blood. Ron had been his very first friend. For a while he’d been Harry’s _only_ friend.

He’d ruined it, all of it, botched it up nice and good and beyond repair.

“I’m fine, Ron, just a lot on my mind.” It was such an easy lie.

“Well, you know that we’re here if you ever need someone to talk to, Harry,” Hermione leaned over and pat him on the knee gently, making him jerk away from the contact sharply. He covered the sudden movement by pretending to have an itch on his back, scratching roughly at absolutely nothing.

Hermione said it so sweetly Harry nearly believed her. Just nearly. He couldn’t help the wave of resentment that sloshed around in his stomach like a violent tide. Where had Hermione been when “vicious murder Sirius Black” had been on the loose and Harry went all summer without a scrap of news? Where had Ron been when Harry was reeling from Cedric’s death? Where had either of them been every single time that Harry had to go back to _them?_ The Dursley’s?

They were together.

They had each other.

Sure they were on Harry’s side but it was clearer each day that there was a definitive line between _them_ and _him._ They would spend the second half of the summer together, it had already been decided before the end of term. They would write to him, so long as Dumbledore said it was say. They would wait for him to potentially join him once Dumbledore decided it was safe. They would have each other...and Harry would have the Dursley’s.

“Cheer up, mate,” Ron urged, giving Harry a large, goofy grin.

“It’s just for the summer, Harry,” Hermione reminded “then you’ll be back at Hogwarts, _of age even_. This is the last time, try to find some solace in that, once you’re of age…”Hermione looked around the compartment and cast a silencing charm on the door, leaning in close. “You’ll be able to join the Order and we can head to Headquarters to start research on the horcruxes. Sir-Snuffles,” she knew hearing Sirius’ name still did dangerous things to Harry. “Snuffles came from a dark wizarding family. His family library is bound to have something useful. Something to point us in the right direction. There’s no need to worry, Harry, it will be over before you know it.”

“Yeah mate, no worries. Quicker you go home, quicker your birthday’ll come around, and the quicker you can leave. The quicker we can end this, yeah?” Ron’s enthusiasm made Harry want to vomit. Ron calling Privet Drive _home_ made him want to punch him in the face. Harry wasn’t one hundred percent certain which would make him feel better.

They both looked at him so expectantly that he settled on neither.

“Yeah, no worries,” he murmured. He forced a smile and they grinned back at him honestly, both of them nodding in unison before falling into quiet conversation.

Harry slumped in his seat and turned green eyes out to the lush verdant scenery passing them by. Each second that ticked away putting him in closer proximity to Number Four. The tears fell on their own accord, slow and trickling down his cheeks.

No one noticed.

No one ever noticed.

Hermione and Ron saw when he exploded, when he snapped, when he was biting, snarling, and wild with rage so deep it terrified him.

They never saw the tears.

He’d lost count of the times he’d cried in front of his friends.

He’d lost count of all the times he’d flinched because they’d moved their hands far too quickly.

He’d lost track of every “I’m sorry” and every time he’d relented to their will.

 _“I don’t want to go back there,”_ the words were on the tip of his tongue but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. The entire conversation would just go around in circles. Harry didn’t have the energy to put up with it. Not with the weight of the horcruxes on his mind. He would be forced to go _home_ no matter how the thought pained him, no matter how much “home” and “hell on Earth” seemed to be synonymous. He would go back to Privet Drive and spend his time thinking about horcruxes so he didn’t have to face anything else.

_...the cup...the snake...something of Gryffindor’s or Ravenclaw’s...the locket...the cup...the snake...something of Gryffindor’s or Ravenclaw’s..._

It was a mantra that seemed to pulse through Harry’s mind as he fell into a fitful sleep. His nightmares were a twisted assortment thick with cups, lockets, mysterious objects, and Dumbledore’s decaying hand.

“Harry,” Hermione’s voice cut through the nightmare sharply, shaking him awake “we’re here,” she informed him. Disoriented, Harry pried his eyes open to look out the window, Kings Cross station staring back at him. _Time to go home_ , something awful twisted in his gut as he rose from his seat and began pulling down his trunk and Hedwig’s cage. She seemed to sense his apprehension and gave a soft, reassuring hoot.

What did it say about his life that an owl showed him more consideration and caring than ninety percent of the humans surrounding him on a daily basis?

“Remember Harry, it’s just until your birthday,” Hermione reminded him as she pulled him into a hug he didn’t ask for. He tried to stop his entire body from clenching.

“We’ll write when we can, won’t we ‘Mione?” Ron gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“Happy hols, guys,” Harry knew his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Once Ron knew he broke up with Ginny after all the trouble he’d gone through to get his approval, none of it would matter. Things would be very different by the time September 1st rolled around.

“Bye Harry, be careful,” they chorused, all smiles and happy waves. Ron and Hermione didn’t understand. Or maybe they didn't care. Six years in and the line was beginning to seem rather blurry to Harry. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t their burden to understand, it was Harry’s and just like with Voldemort and the basilisk and losing Cedric and battling with his sexuality and surviving the summer...Harry would go at it alone.

He was always alone in the end.

He walked into the muggle world by his lonesome, to see a very irate Vernon Dursley waiting for him nearly out of sight. His uncle was nearly purple with barely contained rage and the mere sight of it sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. Shaking himself out of his stupor, he put all of his energy into getting to his uncle’s side as quickly as possible. Eyes lowered and head bowed, he stowed his luggage into the trunk without a word, shushing Hedwig with a harsh hiss when she moved to make a noise meant to comfort him.

“In,” his uncle ordered, opening the back door, fingers clutching the metal viciously. Nodding, Harry situated Hedwig’s cage and clamored in obediently after her.

The ride back to Privet Drive was tense. The silence  between uncle and nephew unsettling and foreign. Typically Vernon complained the entire way back home. About anything really. The heat, having to pick up “the boy,” something ignorant he’d heard on the radio, or some arsehold who’d cut him off. All the usual expletives and rantings were gone behind a stony mask of tight lipped rage. Harry nearly missed his aunt Petunia. At least when she was in the car she would hum gentle platitudes to her husband that seemed to quell his road rage.

Though Uncle Vernon’s rage seemed to have nothing to do with the road.

Something awful twisted in Harry’s stomach.

When they arrived at Number Four, Harry’s heart began to hammer in his chest as the car glided effortlessly into the garage, the door closing ominously behind them. Uncle Vernon never parked his car in the garage.

Uncle Vernon had a nice car.

He liked to park his nice car in his nice driveway in front of his nice house so he could be the envy of all his nice neighbors.

Harry could feel his heartbeat thrumming against his throat. His uncle barked at him to get inside but it barely registered. On its own accord, his body jerked forward as if moved by puppet strings until he had Hedwig’s cage clutched against his chest and had moved into the front room of the house.

Things were untidy. Aunt Petunia would never leave the house in such a state even if it meant she got to bark at him from morning until night to clean it all up again. 

Harry felt as if all the wind had been sucked out of his lungs with a straw, a bead of sweat forming on his brow as he took in the state of things. Aunt Petunia had not been home in a while. He was alone with his uncle. His uncle who was purple and furious. His uncle who had parked in the garage and shut the curtains before leaving the house.

Vernon Dursley did not want anyone to know he was home.

Harry took short, shallow breaths, only moments away from hyperventilating as he listened to his uncle banging his trunk around trying to get it into the house. Harry’s fingers itched with the instinctive desire to wrap around his wand, to feel a sliver of power and protection running against his finger tips. He didn’t care about being expelled. Something awful twisted in his gut and the panic felt like a cauldron ready to bubble over and spew all of him against the walls. Idly, he thought he would prefer being splattered potion on the walls as opposed to whatever he’d be by the time his uncle finished with him.  

Heart hammering in his chest with the ferocity of a frightened rabbit, Harry gauged how much time he had to throw open the door and run to Mrs.Figg’s. His uncle was still lumbering in the garage trying to navigate his clunky trunk and his clunky frame through the narrow space of the rarely used garage.

Foolishly, he tried to run, fingers just having undone the locks when his uncle descended on him like the Angel of Death.

“We could have been normal if it hadn’t been for you,” his uncle growled, shoving the deadbolt lock on the door back in place with a sausage finger.

“ _You_ came along and ruined _everything_ ,” Vernon accused, plucking Hedwig’s cage from Harry’s arms and setting it down on the ground. Hedwig bristled but made no noise, sensing the tension and her master’s desperate, feverish need for her compliance.

“Petunia had to take Dudley away for a while. There’s nothing you haven’t _tainted_ ,” his uncle accused, fat sausage fingers reached up into Harry’s hair and grabbed tight, forcing Harry’s head up until they were eye to eye.

“I should have killed you,” was the last thing Harry heard before a blunt object crashed down so hard upon his head that there was nothing but a ringing in ears. Stars danced across his vision as he felt himself falling to the floor with a loud crack, his knees searing. Vernon was on top of him before the damage registered completely. His large, meaty claws came down and wailed on him, on any part of of Harry his uncle could reach, with unrelenting force. His face, side, and back ached with a deep, sharp burning that seemed to rattle his very core. His bones were being broken, on some level he knew that even as his glasses were shattered and he felt the tiny bits of glass puncturing his face.

Ron’s words danced around in his skull as he felt a sharp cracking in his ribs, like crackling of wood in the hearth; _Quicker you go home._

_Quicker you go home._

_Quicker you go home._

_Home…._

_Home…._

The words seemed to taunt him. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t see. He could barely breathe. All he could do was feel. All of it. Not just his uncle’s angry blows but _all of it._ His parents’ death, Cedric, Sirius, everything that had happened at Hogwarts from his first year to his sixth. The emotion consumed him, threatening to drown him as he curled protectively into a ball at his uncle’s mercy...if his uncle even knew mercy.

“Ruddy bird!” Vernon hollered. Harry had nearly forgotten about Hedwig. She had long since forgotten about his fevered attempts to quiet her and sat shrieking in her cage. It took Harry a long moment of concentration to see the blurry white smudge of her without his glasses. Even battered and broken, he still tried to quiet her. To convince her that he was alright. She was such a good bird...so concerned for him. No one else was concerned for him.

Harry was torn away from the white smudge of Hedwig’s figure by the thick footfalls of his uncle marching over to her cage and rattling it around. Her shrieks brought tears hot, fresh, and angry down his cheeks. He had to get up. He had to help Hedwig. Groaning, every bit of his body screaming in protest, Harry struggled to his hands and knees and made a strangled, unintelligible noise. His words felt like sandpaper trying to wriggle through his throat. All he knew was that he had to help Hedwig.

But it was too late.

Uncle Vernon gave her cage one swift swing and Hedwig’s cage was up and over the stairs, out of view with a warbled squawk.

“You!” his uncle thundered, stomping over to Harry and hoisted him up by the collar of his shirt and punched him hard. Right in the stomach.

Groaning, Harry felt the vomit and bile lurching upward. He was helpless to stop it. He sputtered, a violent cough sent it all spewing forth. He choked on it. It felt like acid on his tongue, in his throat. He feel...small, filthy, pathetic...

He broke up with Ginny to protect her?

He couldn’t protect himself. His wand was in his trunk. He couldn’t protect Hedwig. He could barely move. He couldn't save Cedric and it was his fault Sirius died. It would be his fault when Dumbledore died because he forced him to drink the poison. He couldn't protect anyone he was supposed to. How in Merlin’s name was he supposed to protect the entire wizarding world?

His uncle dragged him away from the puddle of vomit on the floor, sneering down at him. “Always thought you were special did you? You and your freakishness?” his uncle laughed humorlessly, pointing a finger at Harry as if he had him all figured out. “I wanted to drown you, you know,” his tone was conversational but there was a steel behind it that made that awful, awful thing twist painfully in Harry’s gut again and again and again and again…“But no, Petunia was merciful, _begged_ me to keep you. I let you and your worthlessness _infest_ my family. What kind of father does that make me? Hm? You have _ruined my son.”_

Harry could hardly register anything his uncle was telling him. His head felt underwater and stuffed with wool all at once. Everything thing around him was a blurry, blood streaked haze laced with pain so intense he consumed and detached from it all at once. Maybe when he was permitted to sleep…or most likely pass out... maybe could pretend it was all a dream. A vicious attack on his mind by Voldemort. Something to break him...he certainly felt broken….but none of it could be real. It had to all be in his head. If any of it was real...surely someone from the Order would come...wouldn’t they?

_Someone had to come. Someone was going to come for him, blood protections be damned. Someone was going to come. They had to...they had to….they had to...they had to..._

Harry chanted the words over and over in his head, a mantra like drum beat that thumped in tune with his heart. Someone had to come save him. He was sure of it. If for no other reason than him being the Chosen One. They couldn’t let him die when he still had to find the horcruxes...when he still had to defeat Voldemort.

_...the cup...the snake...something of Gryffindor’s or Ravenclaw’s...the locket...the cup...the snake...something of Gryffindor’s or Ravenclaw’s...someone’s going to come...they had to...they had to...they had to...the cup...the snake..something of Gryffindor’s or Ravenclaw’s...the locket...someone’s going to come...they had to...they had to...they had to…_

Harry let the words fill him up, give him strength, until he heard the clink of his uncle’s belt and the soft sound of trousers being pulled down.

His eyes widened, the safety of the words in his head forgotten quickly. His heart stilled for just a split second before fluttering and erupting with a quickness in his chest. He crawled away from his uncle, making it about a foot or more before he felt a thick hand around his ankle. He fought against it, his pain nonexistent as adrenaline pumped through him. _Anything but this...please not this..._ He made it close to the fireplace before his uncle had him pinned down to the ground, tugging his pants down roughly. The cool air in the house made him feel painfully exposed and the heat of his uncle's body pressed against his made him feel close to vomiting again. He squirmed, hitting his uncle wherever his fists landed. But it was no use, he let out a mortified scream as his Uncle thrust his manhood into him, rough and unrelenting. The pain felt like fire through his veins. He let out a choked sob and thrashed wildly against the pain which earned him a sharp slap to the face. .

"Please stop..." Harry croaked, barely able to speak.

"No," was the last thing that Harry heard before something broke inside of him. His body felt like a telly clicking off. Shut down. Void. Nothing but a blank, cold, object robbed of the colorful images within with a blink of the eye. Dumbledore always told him that coming back to the Dursley’s was for his protection. Protection? What happened to him had nothing to do with protection.

It was power.

It was control.

It was pain.

So much pain.

Why? Why was no one helping him?

They were supposed to care about him. At least until after the war. Someone was supposed to care about him...but no one did.

Harry was alone...and he’d never felt so small in all his life.

His consciousness began to slip away as his uncle pumped in and out of him furiously, screaming about how he’d ruined Dudley. With each painful shove into him, his uncle reminded him of all his transgressions since Hogwarts. How he’d trapped Dudley in a snake habitat. How they’d had to take Dudley to some shoddy back alley doctor to get the pig tail removed. The incident with the dementors. Harry laid there, motionless, feeling half dead, and suffered in silence, feeling but not feeling the rough carpet burning his cheek raw.

His mind wandered back to the moment before his eleventh birthday when he had freed the snake from the enclosure at the zoo. He thought about how the glass had faded away into nothingness in order for the snake to escape. He wanted that nothingness now, more than anything. He wanted to escape. He whimpered when his uncle came inside of him, feeling the hot liquid violate him. His eyes drifted shut, he couldn't do it anymore. Exhaustion over took him and he let the world fall away from him behind a sheet of darkness.

Sleep claimed him with welcoming arms.


	2. Letters We'd Like to Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's world begins to unravel with the appearance of two letters he wishes he'd never read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long awaited chapter two is finally here! If you've ever read the original story over on Wattpad then you're bound to notice some differences to this story. Hit me up here or on my tumblr (seductresses-temple) and we can chat about it!

Voldemort was an idiot. 

It was an odd little thought that had sprung up in Harry’s mind when he’d first come to some time after the assault. It gave him a little chuckle to think of it at first, such a fuzzy, nonsensical thought it was. The more Harry thought about it, however, the more he saw the truth in it. He’d been a baby when Voldemort tried to kill him the first time. Voldemort could have just as easily suffocated Harry with a pillow or stuffed teddy, drowned him, chucked him out the window or down a flight of stairs. Why use magic against someone clearly significantly less powerful than you? Voldemort could have simply snapped his neck if he wanted to kill him that badly. Or, if revenge was what he wanted, wouldn’t it have been vicious of him to give Harry to one of his Death Eaters to raise? It certainly would have twisted the knife even further in the backs of the Order, of Dumbledore, of James and Lily. He would have still been in power then, too. Voldemort could have even done something as simple as taking Harry into the wilderness and leaving him for dead, let the wild have him and leave it up to nature to decide whether it was starvation, animal attack, or the cold that finally did him in. Harry could think of at least a dozen ways to kill a baby without magic. Yet, somewhere in Voldemort’s addled brain, turning the killing curse on an infant had seemed like a bang up idea.

Harry blamed the horcruxes. Wholeheartedly. 

He supposed splitting your soul apart didn’t exactly do wonders for the mind. Harry hadn’t created any horcruxes but his soul felt split apart and he knew it wasn’t doing wonders for his mind either. Not being able to keep proper track of time was a close second for things that destroyed the mind. Harry could tolerate the physical pain, well enough, anyhow. He’d gotten into fights before at Hogwarts, namely with Malfoy; as slender as the git was, he had a nasty right hook that could certainly give uncle Vernon a run for his money. Harry also had to regrow all the bones in his arm in second year. Re-growing bones, in Harry’s humble opinion, was much more painful than breaking them. 

The pain in his backside...well...Harry took to ignoring that entirely.Even in the quiet confines of his mind, Harry couldn’t bring himself to admit what his uncle had done to him. Vernon hadn’t touched him again...and Harry prayed that he wouldn’t...or if he did...he prayed his uncle would just have the decency to kill him afterward. Wouldn’t that make a lovely headline for the  _ Daily Prophet _ ?  **Chosen One Killed by Abusive Muggle Uncle**

But not being able to keep proper time had quickly started to screw with his mind. He knew from the hardwood floor underneath him that Vernon dragged him upstairs eventually. After struggling to bring his breathing under control when he’d regained consciousness, the first thing he managed to do was gouge a tally mark into the floor with his fingernail. His body already felt like it had practically been shattered- what were a few splinters in comparison? His tallymarks would have been a brilliant idea if he hadn’t kept passing out. 

By his guess...he’d managed to survive three days...he was conflicted on whether he wanted to bother surviving the summer.

_____________________________

If Voldemort wanted to kill Harry so desperately, apparently all he had to do was have a cup of tea with Petunia and Vernon Dursley and get a few tips. Sure, the Dursleys would both probably vomit at the freakishness of Voldemort’s face; what with the pale skin, red eyes, and lack of nose, but Harry was fairly certain they had a “How to Kill Harry Potter” manual lying around somewhere. It was a funny thing for Harry to imagine: Voldemort sipping tea out of one of Aunt Petunia’s impeccably clean cups, Uncle Vernon trying not to turn puce at the sight of Voldemort’s grotesque features, all three of their heads bowed together over a tiny, pocket-sized book that gave explicit instructions on how to kill one Harry James Potter. It would even have illustrations! Naturally, they would bond over their mutual hatred of him. Voldemort would flip to a random page and would find the most thought out, effective, non-magic way to kill him, march upstairs to the tiniest bedroom of number four and give it whirl. 

Harry thought a bullet to the back of the head would do just nicely. Old Yeller Style. Efficient yet cowardly. Damn quick though. 

Contemplating the idiocy of Voldemort’s past failings seemed to help Harry keep his head on. It stopped him from thinking about...his situation...Something was wrong with Dudley and just as it had been the case his entire life, Harry was taking the blame for it. If his uncle beat him again, Harry reckoned he might die from it. By his shoddy counting, it had been seventeen days, give or take. Close to three weeks of nothing but agony. It hurt to breathe, to move, to blink, and the only relief he had was sleeping. Harry didn’t particularly think he slept, so much as passed out repeatedly, but he didn’t feel like debating the semantics of it with himself. All he knew was that the sweet blanket of darkness that crept over him at random was the only peace he had, without it, his body just felt like one mauled, mutilated, splintered piece of flesh. 

How he’d managed to survive...he still didn’t know. He assumed magic had something to do with it. Maybe it was the blood wards protecting him, keeping him alive  _ just  _ enough so he could keep on being the  _ chosen one _ . Harry was pants when it came to magical theory -he knew how to cast spells but had no idea really how magic  _ worked-  _ but it seemed plausible enough. The thought always made Harry’s mood sour. 

His only bright spot was that he’d managed to send off letters to Ron and Hermione. Moving felt as though hot knives were slicing through his body but he’d stuffed an old belt in his mouth, ground down, and soldiered through it. Without his school trunk he’d had to settle for spare bits of parchment he’d shoved in a draw of his desk who knew when and a pencil but it was enough to send them something at least. 

His mind had been hazy but he knew to tell them about the abuse as best he could, to ask what day it was, and to ask for help. 

Dumbledore may of abandoned him but he knew -no matter how caught up they were in exploring their feelings for each other- Ron and Hermione would never abandon him. 

_____________________________________

At some point, as Harry’s body began to heal and passing out turned into something closer to actually sleeping; a pattern began to form. Every three days or so, a bowl of stone cold porridge and a glass of water would be shoved through the cat flap on his door. The water was tepid and the oatmeal felt like wet cement on his stomach but caught between sludge and starvation, Harry picked sludge. 

He had once survived an entire summer off nothing but cakes before. 

He could survive off of oats and water. 

He would make sure of it. 

He would survive because he was  _ angry.  _

Once when he was younger, six or seven or so, aunt Petunia had been forced to take him with her and Dudley on a shopping trip. Dudley had been allowed to sit in the buggie while Harry had been forced to walk alongside it. While aunt Petunia had been getting steaks from the butcher, a tall, slender woman had stepped beside Harry to survey the meat options, comforting a shorter, rounder woman beside her. The tall woman had murmured sympathetically “Don’t fret dear, everything happens for a reason. The Lord works in mysterious ways.” For some reason, the words had stuck with Harry throughout his entire life. It had brought him comfort at a time where he was coping with his parents having “died in a car crash.” 

A decade later and the words still served purpose. 

Though not a religious person -he wasn’t even sure if wizards believed in  _ any  _ Gods- Harry was certain things happened for a reason. He’d been beaten close to death and raped by his uncle to teach him a harsh, bitter truth, one that had been slowly becoming clearer and clearer to him. No one gave a shite about him.

Not Ron. 

Not Hermione. 

Not Dumbledore. 

He knew it the moment a letter from Molly Weasley had wound up in his lap. Just looking at it made fire burn deep in his stomach. 

_ July 7th _

_ Dear Harry,  _

_ I’m sorry you’re having a rough go of it at your aunt and uncle’s but please, dear, bear in mind that you only have to remain there until your birthday. Dumbledore’s already made arrangements for you to be brought to the Burrow that same day. In the meantime, I’m going to have to ask that you not send anymore troubling letters like this to Ron, or Hermione. You gave them quite a scare. If Hermione hadn’t worked it out to be the cruel joke that it is, I feared she was going to fall apart at the sight of it. Smearing fake blood on a bit of parchment? Honestly Harry, you’re nearly seventeen, dear, you musn’t resort to such childish behaviors simply to get your way. You’ll be at the Burrow with your friends before you know it. But you won’t be leaving until your birthday, it’s already been decided. Trust. Dumbledore. We all have your best interest at heart, dear. _

_ I know how very much like Sirius you are, I’m sure you’re simply stressed from being cooped up and all, plus this nasty business between you and Ginny. No matter, I’m sure once the war is over that things will be better. Things have to get better eventually and we all just need to pluck some courage up from somewhere and buck up till then. I know you don’t like being at your aunt and uncles no more than Sirius liked being shut in at Grimmauld Place but you’re nearly an adult, Harry dear, you’d be better off spending your summer doing a great deal of self reflection. Learning to be a bit more grateful for all the allies you have in your corner could definitely do you a bit of good. You’ll be here soon. I hate to think about what could have happened if we wasted time sending someone to come collect you. Your birthday, Harry, no sooner and no later. Do try to be a good sport until then.  _

 

_ With Love, _

_ Molly  _

He had confided in Ron and Hermione, trusted them, believed in them, shared so much with them over the years. 

He couldn’t believe he’d been so fucking stupid. 

Just looking at the letter made him wish he could incendio it five times over. How could they not believe him? How could they not write to him themselves? Then, to top it all off, how  _ dare  _ Molly bring up Sirius? He took a deep, controlled breath, suppressing the urge to set the whole room on fire and himself along with it. 

The only immediately good thing to come from it was the date in the corner. It was early June. He still had so much time to go before he’d be back on platform 9 ¾. 

“Looks like you’re the only one I can really count on, Hedwig,” he muttered quietly, stroking her feathers lightly. She gave a soft, sympathetic hoot, and nipped at his fingers. It said a lot about the people in Harry’s life that his biggest supporter was a fucking bird. Pathetic, really, but Harry didn’t have the luxury of falling into the spiraling abyss of pity that kept trying to swallow his heart. 

He needed to plan.

_________________________________

The day aunt Petunia had returned with Dudley gave Harry exceedingly mixed emotions. He was finally let out of his room, allowed to bathe for the first time all summer, and had been allowed to eat a few pieces of browning apple. Those were all good things. The downside was that aunt Petunia was at the ready once more with her asinine chore list. Worst yet, she seemed to know what Vernon had done to him the second she’d caught sight of him. Aunt Petunia had thrown him a lot of nasty looks in his life, but nothing compared to the absolutely grotesque way her lips had curled back into a sneer or the way her eyes darkened as if she were looking upon some hideous, disgusting, unfortunate thing. 

Harry supposed he was a hideous, disgusting, unfortunate thing. 

His uncle had made him that way. 

It didn’t stop aunt Petunia and her chores, however, if anything it intensified his workload: wash the dishes, clean all the hardwood floors by hand, wipe down the walls, clean the fridge, dust the furniture, clean the windows, clean the gutters, vacuum and shampoo the living room floor, weed the garden, wash Vernon’s car, mow the lawn. The list seemed endless and of course it all had to be completed up to aunt Petunia’s high standards and before Vernon got home from work. 

The most difficult task of all was that he was supposed to have absolutely no contact at all with Dudley. Both his aunt and uncle had made it painfully clear that if he so much as breathed in Dudley’s direction; they would kill him. Harry believed them wholeheartedly. Until he returned to Hogwarts, Vernon and Petunia Dursley were more of a threat to him than Voldemort. After all, he’d survived the Killing Curse. He had survived every attempt on his life from Voldemort thus far, but he knew he couldn’t survive another beating like the one Vernon had dished out at the beginning of summer. 

Harry worked diligently. He knew without a shadow of a doubt it was the only thing keeping him alive. If Dumbledore wasn’t going to help him, if the Order wasn’t going to help him, if Ron, Hermione, or the rest of the Weasley’s weren’t going to help him; Harry finally understood that he had to help himself. He had to be strong, not for the wizarding world, not for his supposed friends, but for himself. He refused to let his parent’s sacrifice be in vain. 

Once he was back at Hogwarts he could focus on defeating Voldemort and then...well, Harry didn’t know what he would do with his life in the off chance he actually survived. What he did know, however, was that he would figure it out alone.

\----------------------------------------

“Boy!” Aunt Petunia hissed Harry’s ‘name’ like it was acid on her tongue, barging into his room and grabbing him roughly by the arm. 

“Yes Aunt Petunia?” Harry managed to mumble, voice thick with sleep, eyes unfocused. He looked beyond her toward the window and noticed the sun was barely above the horizon. It had to be extremely early in the morning. 

“Vernon and I have to visit a dear friend in the hospital,” she dug her nails into Harry’s arm “this house better be standing when we return. Dudley is at a friend’s until later this afternoon, if you so much as  _ breathe  _ in his direction, so help me, boy, I perform my own bit of  _ magic”  _ she spit the word out, face twisted in disgust “by making sure you disappear without a bloody trace. Am I perfectly understood?”

Harry nodded numbly, letting out a tiny grunt as she shoved him back into his bed. The door slammed behind her with enough force to rattle the windows and wake Hedwig. She let out the quietest shriek Harry had ever heard, feathers ruffled as she glared at the door before nestling back down. It was so early she had probably just fallen asleep. 

“Sorry girl,” he whispered, struggling to sit up in bed. His ribs and various other parts of his body still hurt but it was a manageable pain. Whether that was because his magic was aiding in his healing or Harry soldiered through it because he had no other options; he wasn’t entirely sure but he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. He leaned up against the headboard and listened to the sound of his aunt and uncle bustling through the house as they prepared to leave. Aunt Petunia sounded positively panicked. Whoever they were going to visit must be close to death as far as Harry could figure. When the front door finally slammed shut behind them and he heard uncle Vernon’s car engine roar to life, Harry finally swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. 

“One hundred, ninety nine, ninety eight, ninety seven, ninety six,” Harry began counting softly, slowly, listening to the faint sound of his uncle’s car leaving Privet Drive. He counted all the way from one hundred to one three times before he slowly crept over to the door. He jiggled the handle and let out a sigh of relief to see that Aunt Petunia had forgotten to lock him in. 

“Thank Merlin,” he whispered. Harry wasn’t sure why he was whispering. He had the entire house to himself -that’s how he knew someone  _ had  _ to be dying- but in the still, early morning quiet Harry felt as though his world would come crashing down if he made the slightest noise. Vernon or Petunia would surely kill him if they knew what he was about to do. But he had to. Something kept gnawing at him, filling him up and consuming him until his nerves felt raw and on edge. He stood by the door to his aunt and uncle’s bedroom, still as stone. His chest barely rose, air barely getting into his lungs as he stood there. Of all the things he’d done and had happened to him, Harry felt like this was the one instance where he might have a death wish. Nodding in confirmation to himself, he opened the door as slowly and quietly as humanly possible and crept into the room, heart pounding like a jackhammer.

He’d never been inside his aunt and uncle’s room. He took a moment to look around even though it felt like the stupidest idea. The walls were the same color as they were in every other room in the house: white, plain, clean. They had a brass bed frame for their queen sized bed -how it fit aunt Petunia and Vernon  _ both  _ Harry wasn’t sure. The sheets were plain as well, white with tiny rose bundles printed all over it with matching pillow cases. There were plain looking lamps on each side of the bed. It was quite eerie to Harry how clean and tidy it was despite how quickly they had left. Nothing was out of place. He would have to leave the room in the same pristine condition or else his aunt would know. She would probably know anyhow. He’d probably already breathed wrong or something inside the room. 

“She’d want to hide it,” he reasoned to himself. Immediately he went to the closet and pulled the door back as quietly as he could. He crouched down on the floor on his aunt’s side of the closet and peered inside. What he was looking for would be in something small, something hidden away, pushed to the far recesses. If Harry wanted to hide something, he’d put it in a shoe box and shove it in the closet to never be seen again and though she was loath to admit it, he and his aunt Petunia were family, they had to think similarly to some degree...didn’t they?

“Merlin,” Harry whispered after a while of carefully moving shoe boxes around. He caught sight of an old shoe box that looked as though it hadn’t been touched in  _ years _ . It was plain, black, worn, the cardboard edges starting to split ever so slightly. There was no label. With shaky hands, Harry pulled it forward and popped off the lid, coughing as a bit of dust flew into his mouth. Oh yes, it had to be here. Her secret had to be in here. Harry couldn’t help the small, triumphant smirk that graced his lips when he stared down past the plain white church shoes with the battered soles to see parchment underneath. Smart woman, she’d been using the shoes as a weight to hide the letter that had been left with him the night his parents died. Harry slid the letter out from underneath the shoes carefully and expertly put the shoes back where he’d found them, stacking the rest of the shoes back up perfectly. One of the upsides to aunt Petunia forcing him to clean to her standards was he could mimic her insane level of organization perfectly. 

He scanned the room several times to make sure nothing looked out of place before leaving as quietly as he came and rushing back to his room. The house was still unsettlingly quiet but at least the sun had risen, filling the house with life. Pulse still thrumming against his skin, Harry sat on the edge of his bed and stared down at the letter in his hands. His fingers shook as he looked at it, the stillness of the house leaving an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach. Paranoia. Fear. 

He took a slow steady breath and looked down at the front of the envelope, recognizing Albus Dumbledore's handwriting the second that he saw:

 

_ To the sister of Lily Potter: _

 

_ Mrs. Petunia Dursley _

 

_ The Kitchen _

 

_ #4 Privet Drive _

 

_ Little Whining, Surrey _

 

This letter was crucial. It was the letter from so long ago, the night that Dumbledore had Hagrid place Harry down on the Dursley’s doorstep and condemned him to Hell on Earth. Something deep in Harry’s gut told him this changed everything. He felt as if he were at a crossroads unsure of which direction to turn. Sucking down a large gulp of air as if he were about to plunge into deep waters, Harry grabbed the letter and began to read. 

 

_ Petunia, _

 

_ As it may escape your notice, I see fit to inform you that your sister, Lily Potter has been killed. She was killed in her home in Godric’s Hollow by a dark wizard by the name of Voldemort who has been trying to take over our world for some time now. While I know you care very little about this, these events have set certain circumstances in motion that I believe can benefit you greatly. Your nephew, Harry, was killed because of a prophecy that set Voldemort out to kill him. However, your sister got in the way and sacrificed herself for her son, encompassing him in a strong, near impenetrable magical protection. When Voldemort turned his wand on the child, the killing curse rebounded and destroyed Voldemort’s physical form but he shall return. It is my belief that Voldemort has taken measure to ensure his return but according to the prophecy, he cannot live so long as Harry does. In the end, one of them will have die. If my theories are correct, it will take several years to ensure that Voldemort is gone for good, truly dead with no hope for return.  _

_ It is my job to sacrifice the few to save the many. Harry must grow up willing to sacrifice himself for the greater good of the wizarding world. It is my hope, that you with your disdain for our world and hate for your sister could help me with that. Harry must grow up, let us say, with less. By the time he is immersed into the wizarding world, he should have recieved so little in his muggle life that he feels a sense of ‘coming home’ stepping into the wizarding world for the first time. Convince him that magic does not exist as you so believe in whatever way you see fit so that when he is returned to us, he is a young and impressionable boy filled with wonder by what naturally flows through him. I will take care of the rest.  _

_ For your services, I shall take care of the little magic related problem you’re currently having with your son, Dudley. Along with that, I will continue to keep the secret of Lily’s dalliances with the demon lord a secret as the secret of you recently having your tubes tied a secret. I think, given the circumstances and how desperately you wish to keep these things hidden that this is more than fair. The only thing worse than Vernon finding out Harry has magic would be him finding out he isn’t even fully human, correct? You’ll find this is truly for the greater good. Voldemort’s reign would undoubtedly result in you losing everything you love. He detests your kind with far more maniacal vehemence than you hate ours and he has the power to do something about it. Voldemort would kill and torture you, your husband, and son. I think having to raise a child until he’s seventeen is a fair price to pay for protection in more ways than one. So long as he considers number 4 ‘home’ until he’s an adult, we can amicably solve all our problems for the time being.  _

 

_ Sincerely, _

 

_ Albus Dumbledore _

  
Harry’s rage felt like a cauldron with Draught of Living Death frothing and ready to boil over. He crumbled the letter up in trembling hands and tossed it, accidentally hitting Hedwig’s cage. She let out a shrill shriek, both because of the sudden projectile and because of her owners sudden spike in emotions. “I’m just a pawn,” Harry seethed between clenched teeth, tears streaming down his face. His hands slipped into his hair, grabbing it by the fistful as he rocked back and forth quickly, tapping his foot against the floor as he struggled to keep a grip on himself. How could he have been so stupid all these years? His body tingled from head to toe, feeling like a volcano ready to erupt. His body shook with the sheer force of it. All he wanted was to  _ destroy  _ something. All his fears, all his suspicions, they were all...true…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, I'll try to have chapter three up soon but this story has some pretty heavy themes and honestly I don't know how quickly I'll be able to update this one. I'm kind of in a weird place in my life right now, yanno? Also, this story has not been beta-read and I try to edit as much as I can but to be honest...this story has become something kind of personal within myself and I'm not going to be watching it too closely for errors. I'm an English major and I'm sure that's probably horrible but this is honestly just a passion piece of prove something to myself. Obviously I'm going to make it as clean as I can for you guys but this is kind of like...my emotional roller coaster and I'm just inviting you for the ride lol. If you wanna join me for the ride, that's dope, if you think this story is poorly written and it sucks, you're free to hop off at any time. I just really need to finish this one and not care whether its good or bad it just needs to...be, I guess. Anyway, I'm rambling, thanks for reading and sticking around. It means a lot to me.


	3. The Cupboard Under the Stairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry learns the hard way that with great power comes equally great exhaustion and confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: I have updated the tags to this story to include a canonical minor character death, also this chapter contains panic attack induced vomiting as well as some distorted/downward spiral thinking.
> 
> I'm just...gonna say sorry for this chapter and leave it at that cause I low key fucked my own heart up writing this chapter. Also, it's only a little while past midnight so I'm totally gonna count this as two chapters in one day!

Harry wasn’t sure how long he’d sat there on the edge of his bed. Dumbledore’s letter swirled around in his brain, whispers of insecurities and doubts pulling him deeper and deeper into himself. He’d bee so stupid. He’d been so naive. At some point his anger had deflated until he was left with nothing more than a bone crushing sadness. He felt suffocated by it. Dumbledore betrayed him. Dumbledore, the one person he thought he could trust intrinsically. Who else was lying to him? Ron? Hermione? The Weasley’s? Had Sirius? Was he just their joke? Images flooded his mind of Ron and Hermione snuggled together on one of the couches in the common room, having a good laugh about what an idiot he was. Dumbledore was raising him like a pig for slaughter. All this time, Harry thought Dumbledore had been trying to save him, protect him, that they were the blind leading the blind...but it was all a lie...Dumbledore just wanted him to die at the most opportune moment…

“After I find the horcruxes for him,” Harry whispered, his voice small and broken. 

“I’m just his chess piece,” Harry began rocking again, dragging his nails down his forearm to keep his hands from shaking as he struggled to take in deep, even breaths. He didn’t pay any attention to the blood trickling down his arms or the skin beneath his nails. His entire body felt numb as he sat there, rocking, praying that someone, anyone would barge into the room and tell him it was all a misunderstanding. He wanted someone, anyone to take the fierce ache in his chest away.  

“Boy!” Harry was so lost he never heard uncle Vernon thundering up the stairs until the door was flying open on its hinges. His uncle stormed over to him with a sneer on his face and his meaty hands  grasping into Harry’s hair, pulling until their faces were level. “I have been calling you for the past minute, boy,” his uncle snarled. Harry could smell the liquor on his breath and he felt his heart clench.  _ Not again, please, not again.  _ Uncle Vernon slung him down to the ground, towering over him “you’re nothing but a freak,” uncle Vernon slurred, his eyes wavering for a moment before they refocused on Harry. His uncle gave him a good swift kick in the ribs before going for his belt, his fat sausage fingers slipping clumsily over the buckle giving Harry enough time to right himself. 

“No!” Harry made a mad dash for the door only to get clotheslined by his uncle. He grunted as he fell backward on the floor. It felt like his Adam’s apple had been knocked down his throat. It hurt to swallow and his back colliding with the hard floor upsetting injuries he was still trying to let heal from the beginning of the summer. He felt weak but he didn’t have to  _ be  _ weak. He moaned, struggling to his feet despite the agony it caused him, nostrils flared as he gazed at his uncle. Uncle Vernon may be bigger than him, solid and fat, but Harry at least had the advantage that the man was drunk out of his mind. 

“I won’t let you hurt me anymore!” Harry shouted, trying to dash for the door again. He ducked under his uncle’s arm when he tried to block his back and made it one step closer to the door before he felt the back of his shirt being yanked. 

“Filthy little ingrate,” his uncle growled, slinging him like a ragdoll into the opposite wall. 

“You,” his uncle thrust his finger square into the middle of Harry’s chest “are nothing more than a worthless whore, a freak, we should have drowned you. We should have killed you when we had a chance! I’ve had it! Had it!” 

Hedwig let out a loud, indignant squawk from inside her cage, beating her wings furiously. Harry’s emotions, his magic, sending her into a tizzy. “Ruddy bird!” uncle Vernon knocked Harry clear across the room as he stomped over to Hedwig’s cage, throwing open the door and wrapping his hands around her neck. 

Harry froze, horror wrapping around him like a thick blanket. He was going to kill Hedwig. “No! Hedwig! Not Hedwig!” He flung himself at his uncle, beating on his back as he caught glimpses of Hedwig trying to claw at his uncle’s hands. He watched her become weaker and weaker, her wings become less and less erratic as the seconds ticked by. Harry felt something fragile snap inside of him when his uncle callously tossed Hedwig’s limp snowy body across the room, her eyes blown open with fear. 

“You monster!” Harry screamed until his throat felt raw, lunging himself at his uncle and throwing blows as hard as he could, hitting any expanse of flesh he could come into contact with. His rage felt white hot and volatile as he got knocked around every inch of his small room. He couldn’t see, his eyes were puffy and swollen from blows to the face that weren’t even registering. All he knew was to keep fighting, never stop fighting. His uncle had killed Hedwig. Hedwig was all he  _ had.  _ She was all he had and Harry had never felt so alone, so broken, so outside of himself as he did the moment he watched the life drain from her eyes. 

Harry felt devoid, like something deep inside of him had both shut off and flicked on at the same time, like a short circuit of some sort. His uncle socked him in the jaw, sending him spiraling to the floor and Harry could feel his magic swirling around him like leaves caught in a whirlwind as he laid panting, trying to catch his breath. “You killed my  _ only  _ family,” something akin to a growl left Harry’s lips. If he were anywhere close to being in his right mind it may have startled him to hear it. He staggered to his feet, glaring at his uncle who was half bent over, wheezing and struggling to catch his breath, his face a red, sweaty mess from the fight. All Harry could see was the source of his pain and he felt something stir deep within him. His anger, his magic, it felt as though it were a living thing inside of him, pushing, crawling, rushing to the surface. He grit his teeth, fists clenched as he suppressed the dark urges in his mind.  _ Destroy. Rip. Flames. Kill.  _ The words danced around in his mind as he thought of how much his uncle had hurt him over the years. He thought about the searing pain through his backside the moment his uncle violated him. He pictured Hedwig’s frantic wings as she fought for survival beneath his vice grip. 

“You,” Harry growled, his magic whipping around him like a fierce wind, threatening to topple his uncle over. 

“What the devil are you doing, boy?” his uncle accused, straightening up and taking a step toward him before Harry’s magic deflected it, beating him back like a fly. 

Harry’s eyes flashed as raw power surged through the room making the windows quake in their panes before finally shattering soundlessly, the pieces of glass flying into the air and getting caught in the current of his magic. Harry watched as they sliced their way across his uncle’s skin. 

“I am  _ no one’s  _ whore,” he hissed, punching his uncle square in the stomach and bringing him to his knees. “I am no  _ freak, _ ” he raised his hand and backhanded his uncle clear across the face with all the strength he could muster in his body. It made something vicious and dark in Harry’s heart feel so deliciously good to see his uncle gaze upon him with fear. “I am  _ not  _ weak!” he grabbed his uncle’s face between his hands and drove his knee through uncle Vernon’s face as hard as he possibly could. He felt satisfied when his uncle’s body fell to the floor in a bloodied heap, a few of his teeth  _ clinking  _ to the floor. 

“This...is not...my home,” he spoke slowly, over enunciating the words, feeling each syllable on the tip of his tongue, in his heart, in his magic. He spoke over and over again, like a mantra, like a prayer, like a spell. Harry felt the words in his soul. This was not his home. Privet Drive would never be his home. 

The walls began to glow a brilliant orange color. Harry’s magic -sensing a threat- hurriedly cast a strong protective spell around the house as the blood magic that had been placed upon the house violently ripped itself to shreds. Harry could feel it all around him: crumbling, falling, melting, destroying itself piece by piece by the sheer force of his uncontrollable magic. He relished in the feeling. He felt strong, powerful, in control, and he would be lying through his teeth if he said he didn’t  _ enjoy  _ it. 

When he felt the oppressive blood magic fall away from him like water rolling off his skin, Harry turned his attention back to his uncle Vernon. He strode over to him and, with no problem at all despite his uncle’s weight and girth, picked him up by the throat and lifted him so they were face-to-face. “I, despise you,” he whispered, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. “Every inch of your fat, fleshy skin, from your sweaty, ruddy face to your filthy sausage fingers, all the way through to your putrid, rotten, crumbling black heart. I hate you. I hope every night you sleep that you think of me, of all the things you’ve done, of all the sins you’ve committed. I hope the mere thought of me torments you for the rest of your life, haunts your waking moments as you remember how you’ve abused me, hurt me, a  _ child _ , and I hope you remember who the real freak in this family is.” The moment he said the word freak a squealing shriek ripped through his uncle’s body as he convulsed, curling in on himself in a way that was obscene and unnatural. The motion caused Harry to drop him onto the floor. His uncle writhed on the floor, clutching his stomach as he screamed. There was some small part of Harry that wondered where aunt Petunia was? Where Dudley was? Or why the neighbors, as nosy as they typically were, hadn’t come barging over or called the police by now. The thoughts were so far removed though as he crouched down beside his uncle, unable to help the wide, malicious smile stretching across his face as he watched blood seeping through the front of uncle vernon’s shirt as intently as if he were watching the telly. He ripped his uncle’s shirt open with a force that shocked that quiet piece of him that felt so small inside of him. He watched with gleaming eyes as the letters f-r-e-a-k slowly carved themselves into the pale flesh of his uncle’s belly. Harry knew it was his magic, knew it was wrong, knew if he tried hard enough, cared enough he could probably control it, stop it but the instinct to stop was so small, so far. The vindication felt too sweet, the justice felt absolutely divine. His uncle had raped him, beat him, killed Hedwig, isolated him, starved him, his uncle had tried to  _ destroy  _ him. Why couldn’t Harry destroy too? Why had he fought so hard to be everything Dumbledore wanted him to be when it was all a  _ lie _ ? 

“You’re a rapist, Vernon,” Harry felt a surge of relief rush out of him, saying that word for the first time. He watched as blood began to collect on the fabric of Vernon’s trousers, a jagged R slowly becoming visible. He wanted Vernon to hurt, wanted him to bleed.

“You’re a pedophile,” Harry didn’t care if he was nearly an adult. In the eyes of the law he was still a minor, a child. His uncle had done something  _ unspeakable  _ and Harry wasn’t going to call it anything short of what it was. 

“You’re cruel,” the letter C began to form on Vernon’s forehead, the word ‘pedophile’ still etching its way into his chest. Harry’s magic was whipping around them so ferociously that it drowned out the sound of Vernon’s howls to a mere background noise. Harry didn’t care if he screamed, howled, bawled; Harry didn’t care. He wanted Vernon to hurt. 

“You’re a monster,” he intoned quietly, his eyes gazing over at Hedwig’s dead body still lying on the floor. Harry felt a tear roll down his cheek as he looked at her. His poor Hedwig. His first friend, his confidant, his everything. Just staring at her made him want to bash Vernon’s face in for taking her away from him. 

“You, Vernon, are a freak, and I’ll be damned if I  _ ever _ let you make me think its my fault ever again,” Harry watched with a calm fascination as smoke curled from Vernon’s body and the scent of burning flesh filled the room. Harry’s magic thrummed through the room as the rest of Vernon’s wounds sizzled as if dittany had been poured over them, the words stitching together and leaving faint, barely noticeable scars, but the brand on his inner thigh was raw, pink, and glaring. Harry pressed the heel of his palm against it “you’re never going to forget what you are,” he whispered close to Vernon’s ear before shoving his uncle away from him roughly, knocking him out. 

In the stillness of the room, devoid of Vernon’s screaming, Harry took a shuddering breath. His magic collapsed in on itself like a powerful wind slamming a door shut, making Harry slump over panting and gasping for hair. “Bloody fuck,” he whispered, clutching his chest as he tried to steady himself. His body felt...peculiar, tingling and fuzzy compared to the forceful thrum of his magic pumping through him like a well oiled machine. 

“What’s happening to me?” he whispered, looking down at his trembling hands. The words from Dumbledore’s letter came back to him.  _ Isn’t fully human. Demon Lord. Isn’t fully human. Isn’t fully human. Not human.  _ On wobbly legs, Harry bolted upright and ran for the toilet, nearly missing the bowl in time as he retched nothing but pure bile. His shoulders shook as he let out a loud, broken sob, tears trickling down his face as what happened played in his head like a bad movie. He’d enjoyed it. He’d enjoyed it  _ so  _ much and the thought sickened him. He retched again, hugging the toilet bowl as his body came down from what he could only describe as a magical adrenaline high. 

“Hedwig,” he moaned after Merlin only knew how long. He couldn’t just leave her in his bedroom like that. He rinsed his mouth and brushed his teeth before staggering to his room, cradling her lifeless body against his chest. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you,” he whispered, fat tears streaming down his face and dripping onto her feathers. She felt so small against him. When she was alive he’d never held her. Owls weren’t a pet that you held and cuddled like a cat or a dog. He never realized how small and fragile she really was. She had always been so strong to him, for him. She’d been his rock, been with him through everything.

“I love you, Hedwig,” he placed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head, taking a feather out of each of her wings and placing them on his desk. 

“Come on, girl,” he wrapped her up in one of his pillow case, leaving the house and walking to the park. He refused to bury her at number four. Even though his body felt hollow and heavy at the same time, Harry walked to the park and buried her beneath the biggest tree there. She deserved to be buried some place that had brought him peace in his life. 

“Say hi to mum and dad and Sirius for me,” he told her, patting the grave once he’d tossed the last handful of dirt on top. “Tell Cedric I expect him to take good care of you until I get there.” Harry wiped the tears from his face, not caring that he was smearing dirt over his face. Nothing mattered anymore. Hedwig was dead. He wasn’t human. His uncle was passed out in his bedroom, mutilated by Harry’s own magic. His world felt flipped upside down and shattered at the same time. What did anything matter anymore?

By the time Harry found the strength and energy to return to number 4 he felt absolutely depleted. He managed to make it as far as the living room before collapsing into the couch. He curled up into a ball, his thoughts a swirling mess of fragmented thoughts before his fatigue overtook him and he passed out

_______________________________________

“Mud! Mud everywhere!” Harry startled awake by the sound of aunt Petunia’s stuttering shrieks. He bolted upright on the couch to see her standing in the doorway of the living room, a vein pulsing in her much too long neck. He watched her fists clench and unclench as she stalked over to him, Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her so vehement. “What is the meaning of this? Where’s Vernon?” she was shaking from head to toe, eyes bulging out of her head as she stared down at him. Harry was so taxed it took him a moment to register that she expected him to answer. When he didn’t, he heard her slap before he felt its sharp sting across his face.

Harry sat there for a moment in dazed disbelief. Aunt Petunia had never struck him the way Vernon did. Sure, she’d given him a rough shove a time or two, maybe a slap upside the head when he was slow to move in the morning. But she’d never outright hit him, not like this. When he finally turned to look at her, she had a smug, triumphant smile on her face, arms crossed over her chest as she glared at him, waiting for an answer. Harry wanted to claw that look off her face. He stood from the couch slowly until he and aunt Petunia were nose-to-nose, his magic kicking up around them. Fear flashed in aunt Petunia’s eyes and Harry grinned, like a Cheshire cat wide and big. 

“I went hunting for a little letter today,” he told her softly, running a finger down her cheek and reveling in the way she trembled beneath his touch. 

“Oh God…”

“It’s funny,” Harry mused “how often you say that. Do you really think God watches over people like you, Petunia? You let him  _ hurt  _ me. You knew and you did  _ nothing _ .” His magic felt like drugs in his veins, pulsating, heightening his senses, and pulling him over the edge. Some unrecognizable part of him swore he could feel her fear rolling off her like waves.  

“What have you done to him?” she whispered, her eyes wandering toward the ceiling. Vernon still hadn’t made a sound since she’d returned. 

“You should be more concerned about what I’m going to do with you,” Harry reached out and quickly snatched Petunia up by her hair, dragging her along as he headed out into the hallway. 

“Let go! Let go of me! Vernon! Vernon!” Harry snorted quietly, rolling his eyes as he marched to the cupboard under the stairs and batted at the lock, yanked the door open, and tossed Petunia inside. He took great pleasure in watching her clatter onto his old cot in a messy heap of gangly limbs. The closet was dank and dusty since it had stopped being his bedroom and filled with much more spiders than he remembered. It brought a smile to his face. Petunia and Vernon were getting exactly what they deserved. 

“Dudley, a wizard, I never would have thought it. You went to extremely great length to keep that one under wraps. Of course you did, imagine if Ver-”

“You won’t get away with this you freak!” 

Harry snarled, shoving his face through the doorway of the closet, his magic whipping around him violently to the point that the closet door thumped erratically against the wall. “I am  _ not  _ a freak!” Harry slammed the door shut, feeling a deep pull on his magic before the space around the door let out a deafening crack. 

“Let’s see how you like it,” he shouted, slamming his fist against the wall beside the closet. 

Gritting his teeth, Harry climbed the stairs two at a time and rushed to the bathroom. His breath hitched on his throat when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He hardly recognized himself. Body still surging with power, he felt stronger than he ever had in his life. He felt powerful and in control, his wounds from earlier in the summer nowhere in sight, his body unrecognizable from the scrawny runt he’d always been. He looked strapping and healthy, all the summers filled with Petunia’s manual labor looking as though they’d finally had some effect on him, his body filled out and slightly muscular in a way he wasn’t used to. His skin was darker, a rich mocha color that vaguely reminded him of the way Vernon took his coffee. He looked good, healthy, but Harry’s heart danced frantically in his chest. “What’s happening to me?” he whimpered, touching his face as he struggled to breathe, panting erratically through his nose. 

“What’s happening to me?” his hair was different, his eyes were different, his body, his magic. His hair had a sheen to it, no longer looking like a mangled, unruly heap atop his head. There was a thickness and vibrancy to it he had never experienced before. Gingerly, he combed his fingers through it for the first time he could remember with no tangles. He turned his head left and right, noticing the copper highlights that caught the light. He felt bile rising in the back of his throat as he continued to look at the stranger in the mirror. His eyes were scary to look at. They nearly looked like jewels. There was so much depth in them Harry felt uncomfortable looking at himself. He looked down at his hands, turning them over multiple times. His fingertips felt electrified, the bursts of magical energy still buzzing about his body like an angry hive. Had the blood magic that kept him tethered to number four been...suppressing him somehow? His mind flashed to the letter from Dumbledore crumpled up somewhere on the floor of his bedroom. 

_ Not fully human. Not fully human. Not fully human.  _ Harry ran to the toilet and retched up bile again, his shoulders shaking violently. “Bloody fucking hell,” he groaned, feeling his magic ebb away again as he rested his head on his arms. What was happening to him? The blood magic over the house had to be the answer. Whatever he  _ was _ had to be the answer and it made his animosity for Dumbledore harden in his heart. 

“Who am I?” he murmured, his energy dwindling down to nothing hard and fast. Dumbledore’s letter clouded his brain. Dumbledore said he wasn’t entirely human but Harry certainly  _ felt  _ human albeit a little strange. He looked behind him, running a hand over his arse. There was no tail. He ran his tongue over his teeth. There weren’t any fangs.  He looked at his stubby fingernails to find no claws. He looked at his back and saw no wings. So what was it? Why would Dumbledore say he wasn't human? Was it just another trick, a manipulation to play on Petunia’s fears? If that were the case, it didn’t explain who the ‘demon lord’ was. It didn’t explain how he’d been able to lift Vernon either. 

“Who am I?” Harry couldn’t stop asking it. His eyelids drooped as Harry passed out for what felt like the thousandth time that summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooooooo, I would like to point out that despite how screwed up the beginning of this story is IT DOES HAVE A HAPPY ENDING! I PROMISE! You're free to yell at me in the comments or over on Tumblr @seductresses-temple if you want though cause this chapter was ROUGH!


	4. We Will Meet Again

To my dearest Readers, 

 

Your seemingly unending love for  _Flourishing in Darkness_ continues to amaze me. As many of you whom have been here since the very beginning may know, I began writing this fic when I was in an exponentially dark place. My life was starting to spiral out of control and I had no idea to handle it. I felt small and utterly alone. My partner had become abusive and I felt so scared and trapped. I turned back to fanfic writing for what felt like the millionth time and poured all my heartbreak, my angst, my fear, my emptiness, and my feelings of abandonment into this fic. It is most certainly not a very happy fic though I had always planned for it to have this grand happy ending where everything turned out beautiful in the end. It was what I wanted, the kind of content I needed in my life at the time to feel like the Hellscape I was going through at the time could lead to something better. 

 

It did lead to something better. After three years of being stuck in a relationship where I was belittled, berated, punched, hurt, devalued; I finally got out. I had my freedom and I had this grand idea that I was going to revise  _Flourishing in Darkness._ I was going to make it better than ever! I felt like I had something to  _prove_ with this fic. I felt like if I didn't continue writing it, if I just left it...I don't really know what I logically thought would happen? That you guys would be mad? That if I didn't write about overcoming trauma in some way that what I went through didn't matter? That if I didn't finish this fic that was absolutely exhausting me then I wouldn't have anything to physically show for all the pain I went through? I thought a lot of really silly things when I was first out of that situation. I was hurting in a deep way and I didn't know how to handle it. I was struggling to stay afloat and I latched on to this fic like it was my only lifeline and decided I couldn't let go. 

 

As I said, I wrote this fic when I was in a really low place and I started re-vamping it when I was in a different yet equally bad place. There are a lot of things about this fic I no longer like, mainly using Ron and Ginny as target practice for my anger and sorrow. I made them such terrible flat and vicious characters in this fic for no reason other than the fact that it was easy and it felt good at the time to write them. Now, it hurts, a great deal to do so. There are a lot of things about this fic that just make me so weary because I was so weary when I began writing it. 

 

Fanfic is supposed to be fun, uplifting, it's supposed to bring happiness and this fic just doesn't do that for me anymore. This fic, as it stands now, has served its purpose. It got me out of a rough place and I am so grateful to it for its ability to do that. However, I can't make this fic better when I'm still clutching to all the same ideas I had when I was at my absolute lowest. So, bearing that in mind...I have made the difficult decision to stop working on this fic. 

 

This decision isn't forever. At some point,  _Flourishing in Darkness_ **will** be completed but it will be completely re-written. I don't know if you all will like the new version at all, let alone if you will like it as much as this one, but that's a risk I'm willing to take. I have finally found the freedom in realizing that I do not have to dedicate myself to something that no longer brings me joy, that no longer serves a purpose to me. I don't have to keep convincing myself that finishing this fic as it stands now is a labor of love. It is not a labor of love, merely a labor that I don't have to put upon myself. 

 

I am so grateful to all the people who have loved this fic, who have read every chapter, left kudos, who have said some of the most beautiful things about it. You all are fucking amazing. You're one of the main reasons I write. I just want my writing to resonate with someone, even if its just one person. That one person is enough. So, to see the out pour of love on this fic just...it is so profound. It left such an imprint on my spirit and words can barely describe how happy and fulfilled it makes me feel. That's what fic is supposed to be about. That feeling of community and joy. 

 

So, for  _Flourishing in Darkness_ this isn't good-bye....it's just...until we meet again. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you. Thank you to every single person who has read, left kudos, and left comments on this fic. Thank you to all the people whom this story resonated with. You are not alone and though this fic will take a long time to reach completion, I am always here if you need a shoulder to cry on or a listening ear. Thank you for allowing me this space to explore my trauma and helping me realize I don't have to push blindly forward with something that no longer brings me joy. Thank you, from the absolute bottom of my heart, with all the love I have in me to give, for being here and welcoming me with open arms.

**Author's Note:**

> So here ends chapter one. I know that it was dark and violent and depressing but I promise things do get better. Feel free to leave me questions, comments, concerns, or just come say "hi!" I promise I don't bite unless you want me to.


End file.
